Oh Groan!

I wasn’t going to write today.  I was going to take the day off, and for a split second, I didn’t feel guilty about that choice.  A split and fleeting second that was over and replaced before I was able to enjoy it.  Then the crazy crept in.  As I looked at my Twitter feed, all I could see was post after post from Suzi So-and-So and Wendy Whooseywhatsit letting the world know that they’d just completed their 6,483rd day of daily posts which made me realize that yesterday was my 31st day and if I neglected today then tomorrow would require me to restart my counter back at one and then what was the point of discovering I might be a writer if I was going to waste my newfound resolve to WRITE by starting the new year off with a failure and that’s no way to set the tone so here I am vomiting out my neuroses yet again…..*deep breath.

My trouble today is two-fold:

1.  I am hungover.  Like, I-might-die-if I-stand-up-too-quickly-because-the-blood-will-rush-to-my-head-and-I-will-pass-out-in-a-crumpled-heap-which-will-upset-the-precarious-balance-of-my-stomach-and-cause-me-to-choke-on-the-vomit-that-comes-up-as-a-result HUNGOVER.  (I am *this close* to deciding that binge drinking should be retired with no pomp to my rapidly growing Murtaugh List. One whiskey shot?  Delightful.  Five?  In conjunction with an equally ridiculous number of Drop Top Pale Ales? Totally stupid.)  Any type of thinking that goes on whilst feeling this horrid is bound to be flawed in any number of key ways.  I am finding that it is incredibly difficult to concentrate on much else besides the pounding in my head keeping rhythm with the waves of nausea in my stomach.  Although, if I were to regale you with even half of the things I ALLEGEDLY did and said upon returning home last evening, I’m certain you might pee yourself from laughing so hard.  Drunk Jen stories notwithstanding, many of the brain cells I use when writing are still sweating out the poison I soaked them in last night.

2.  I had not foreseen the trouble I’d have with writing unprompted.  That was one thing that my Inner Monologue, in her infinite wisdom, neglected to worry about when naming her objections to the challenge I’ve put to myself.  Last night was the first night in 31 that I went to sleep NOT thinking of how to best answer a question.  (Admittedly, the only thing I was capable of thinking last night  was the verbal equivalent of the fetal position, but you get my point.) Reverb10 was an excellent running start, but its end has posed a stumbling block.  Today was not the day to be faced with that obstacle.  I’m not really in fighting condition right now.

In the end though, it looks as if I did get a little something onto the page, and I’m glad about that.  Tomorrow I shall begin in earnest figure out this trouble.  I know I want to write, and I know now that I want to do that everyday.  What’s left to figure out is the what of it all.  What are my expectations of the things I put out there into the world?  What will it all be about?  What are my topics?  Today was for questions (and gallons of 7-Up), tomorrow will be for answers.

11 Things

The Prompt:

11 Things What are 11 things your life doesn’t need in 2011? How will you go about eliminating them? How will getting rid of these 11 things change your life? (Author: Sam Davidson)

1.  PUBIC HAIR (aside from a small landing strip so that I don’t look like a 9 year old girl)  Yes, I said pubic hair.  Because really, what’s the point?  It’s annoying, unsightly, and gets caught in the teeth.  I have been, for about the past year, saving money monthly by doing my own Brazilian waxes, or, as seems more fitting: Vagina Jihads.  Twat Fatwas.  Unlike eyebrows, which, if plucked too sparsely, will refuse to grow back, pubic hair is resilient, like crab grass.  It costs me money and pain, and I really could go without it.  Unfortunately, I think I’m stuck with it in 2011 as well as every ensuing year.  Electrolysis is cost prohibitive and laying the area ‘down there’ ablaze with a blow torch is quite out of the question.

2.  CIGARETTES.  I’m pained to say so, but I really think that it’s about that time.  In my twenties, I always said, “I’ll quite when I’m 30″.  It seemed so far away at that point.  When I hit 30, I pushed the semantic envelope by deciding that I would be 30 for a whole year.  By 31, I’d just plain stopped attempting to fool myself.  But it’s time.  My skin is showing visible effects and so are my hair and nails.  Who cares about lung cancer or emphysema with vanity to worry about?

3.  HANGOVERS.  Remember when you could drink until you blacked out and then wake up two hours later refreshed and ready to start again?  I do.  Not so anymore.  Where before my hangovers were limited to slight dehydration and bad breath cured by greasy breakfast and a 20 oz of Coke, they’re now raging, two day affairs requiring only a minimum amount of movement (if any!) and a dark room.  As much as I hate to admit it, I think it’s also time to start limiting the excess to which I partake of the devil’s nectar.  Lacking a live in EMT to administer a saline drip as soon as I stumble into my bed, it might be the only viable option.

4.  GRAY HAIR.  For real.  Is it really necessary?  I don’t think think so.  The scientific reasoning is something having to do with the body’s inability to continue to make the proteins necessary to produce pigment.  I’m less concerned with the reasoning and more concerned with the fact that I can no longer yank out the errant grays that I see.  If I did that now, I’d have a sizable bald spot on my left temple.  I’ve always been happy with my hair color and I’m resistant to having to begin yet another beauty maintenance procedure that costs me money and time.

5.  DOG PUKE.  There aren’t really many things more disgusting than making your way to the bathroom in the dark at night only to walk through a wet and slimy puddle of dog bile.  My dog has a weak stomach.  EVERYTHING makes her vomit.  If we go somewhere new, or stay at home.  If she’s running around, or lazing on her bed.  New food.  Her regular food.  Dog treats.  Fireworks.  Balloons.  There’s no rhyme or reason.  Just a constant flow of bright yellow mess.  Methinks it’s time for an iron stomach transplant.

6.  THE LITTER BOX.  I never dreamed I’d own a cat.  I grew up with dogs.  When I was young, one of the first funny things my dad taught me to say, aside from “Disco Sucks” was that cats were good for one thing:  Boat anchors.  So when my girlfriend K (a vet tech) called me to give me a sob story about this tiny little kitten who had just lost its hind leg and needed a home, I was reluctant to accept.  But, being a sucker for a hard-luck story, I took the mewling thing in and we became cat owners.  I love my cat.  I hate her litter box.  I’ve inherited a slightly OCD need for cleanliness in my home, and that means the litter gets changed every day.  It’s a pain in my ass.  I hate it.  Unfortunately, on top of it being difficult to teach cats tricks, I think it might be life threatening to ask my three-legged cat to balance precariously above a toilet full of water in order to eliminate that disgusting box of cat waste.

7.  UNEMPLOYMENT.  It’s time for me to get a job.  Seriously.  This is the longest I’ve been without work since before I could work legally.  The break is over.  It’s been real, but I’m beginning to feel completely useless.  I’d make a terrible kept woman.

8.  FEELING GUILTY ABOUT THE FACT THAT I DON’T WANT CHILDREN.  This is an open note to those of you on the Stepford Mommy Track:  My vagina is not a clown car.  Not wanting kids does not make me a bad person.  Not having kids does not make my husband and I LESS of a family.  You may take your condescending, side-long glances and your “What’s Wrong With You, Don’t You Know That Your Life Isn’t Complete Without Babies” thought processes and shove them back into your uteruses where they belong.  I don’t want your Kool-Aid, thank you very much for offering.

9.  HAVING A BLACK THUMB.  I love plants.  Seriously.  Every space is better if it has a plant in it.  Unfortunately, if I even look at a plant sideways, it withers and dies.  I’m not lying.  You’re thinking about it now aren’t you?  I can hear it as sure as I’m sitting here.  You’re saying:  ”Well, you just never had a (insert the name of a plant that CAN’T die here)”.  I have.  And I’ve killed them.  I’d like to learn how not to do so.

10.  BAD ITALIAN FOOD.  I live in Washington State.  I don’t know how it’s possible, but apparently, the Italians never made it this far west.  You can’t find a good pizza, and when you ask for an Italian Mix at the deli, they look at you like you’ve asked for shit on a cracker.  I’m on a mission to find a good piccata, a halfway decent Diavolo and a passable almond cookie.  My kingdom for a cannoli!

11.  CRAPPING OUT AT THE LAST SECOND.  I’m doing it here, and I do it all the time in regular life.  I get excited about a project and then don’t finish it.  I shall, in 2011, finish what I start.

I can’t say how these things will change my life, other than they’ll make it considerably less annoying.  I’ve always known that I’d make an excellent, cranky old lady, but 31 is too early to start down that road.  I’m struggling toward a more zen me.  These things are just road blocks.